


Hour of the Wolf

by kittydesade



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 02:45:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittydesade/pseuds/kittydesade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal doesn't like hospitals, most especially when he's the one in them. At least Peter's there to drive him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hour of the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryvon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/gifts).



> Implied (pre-story) non-consensual sex not between the named characters, though the r-word is never mentioned.

Hospitals were cold. Filled with white. They smelled of chemicals and body odor all at once, and Neal didn't like them very much. He liked being in them even less. Especially when he didn't have the slightest idea what was going on.

Double that for when he had half an idea what was going on, that it involved him, and no one would tell him anything.

Neal swung his legs like a child and kicked the sides of the bed. Table. Whatever they wanted to call it, the big padded thing with all the paper on that was uncomfortable to sit on when they told you to strip and now just made him nauseous to look at it. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Thumpity-thump-thump-_slam._

About the time he'd jumped off the table and decided to go looking for someone who would tell him what was going on Peter walked in. Thank god he'd gotten dressed first.

"This doesn't look good."

Peter winced. And he wouldn't look at Neal, one hand ruffling through the back of his hair as he paced into the room, turned a slow circle around the opposite side. Neal bobbed and weaved a little trying to catch his eyes. "The tests came back positive," Peter told the floor to the right of Neal's foot.

Neal's stomach contorted itself like it was trying out for the Cirque du Soleil. "Positive."

"Yeah. They're still working on your bloodwork, but they don't think..." he ducked sideways as a box of tissues went flying through the air. It didn't go near his head, Neal had knocked it off the table with an angry gesture that didn't come close to him, but it was more the force of emotion than anything that had Peter ducking and covering. "Neal..."

"Sorry."

They both waited until some of the awkward had dissipated. Neal's fingertips made a vain attempt to rub the tension headache from his forehead. "So it's true."

"Looks that way," Peter said quietly, hands spread in front of him in a helpless and irritating gesture. Irritating because it was helpless. This shouldn't be happening. They were the goddamn FBI.

Neal pushed his hands through his hair, which felt greasy and slightly crackly. "So..." No, he'd just said it was true. He needed to say something else. "I was..."

"Yeah."

Too quick, Peter, too quick. Neal glared at him with the kind of force he'd never used before, pale-eyed hatred burning up the backs of his eyeballs. Peter actually took a step back and held up his hands, opening his mouth to say something, but Neal got there first.

"What? You don't want me to say it? You don't want me to say the word, is it a scary word? Woo-scary..." Hot shame flared up in his cheeks. He didn't want to say the word, either, but if Peter was going to avoid it he was going to be stubborn and push the issue, because that was what he did with Peter. He pushed.

Peter didn't appreciate it this time. Hands on his hips, and yelling. "What do you want me to say, Neal, huh? Nothing I say is going to make this any better..."

Except Neal had already figured that out. He'd also figured out that he didn't want Peter to say it after all. Just thinking the word was enough to make him sick, hands on the edge of the sink, head bowed down. Shoulders drawn up and hunched.

"Sorry," The voice came from behind him, close behind. One hand came down between his shoulder blades, warm and firm. Neal resisted the impulse to tense, and besides, it was Peter's hand. Peter's voice. "I'm sorry."

Sympathy pulled on that last little thread that was holding him together. His face twisted, his mouth doing one thing while he tried not to grimace or smile or say anything, because it would all come out wrong. And then his mouth twisted because the muscles seemed to have a life of their own, inflamed by a sense of his body already having divorced itself from his intentions and the complete gap in his memory where the previous night was supposed to be. His memory stopped at the dinner and started again in the wee hours just before the false dawn, with a sticky feeling of dismay and a raging headache.

And he was going to get vomit all over Peter's loaned sweats. He shook his head, which only made him dizzy, and squeezed his eyes shut harder. If that was possible. "Sorry," he grated out. The less he opened his mouth the less likely he was to start hiccuping bile. "Sorry, I'm, um..."

Peter's arm slid around his shoulders.

Neither of them said anything about that. Or about the way his friend awkwardly patted his shoulder and then somewhat less awkwardly tightened his grip. About the tears that fell hot and sporadic down his cheeks, driip drip, nothing, sniffle, drip again. His throat worked, wet and sticky and already starting to be rubbed-raw with crying-related snot. He wasn't crying. He didn't cry. And certainly not in front of Peter.

He hadn't even cried over Kate, for god's sake. Well, not in front of Peter.

It didn't seem to matter. His mind wasn't reconciling what had happened, what the doctors had determined from his physical state had happened, with what he remembered or what he wanted or believed of himself. His image of himself was not fitting together nearly so well as it had yesterday morning. And Peter's hug that was turning into a full embrace wasn't helping. It was pity, and he didn't want pity. And if it was an attempt to share the grief, it just made it all the more real.

"Peter..." Neal's hand was cupped around the other man's shoulder, and he didn't remember that. Didn't remember clinging back in the embrace, or being warmer than the cold air of the hospital usually permitted. After he stepped back he wanted that warmth again, but he didn't know if he was ready to ask for it. He knew he wasn't ready to meet those worried, caramel-colored eyes.

Peter understood. Or at least he seemed to. It was back to just the hand between his shoulders again, grabbing his jacket from where he'd draped it over the back of the chair, little non-verbal non-contact nudges that it was time to go. "You okay?"

"No," he managed a brave little toaster smile, lips still not quite working right. "I will be."

"Okay." Small nod. Waiting for Neal.

Who squared his shoulders and dragged his game face back on. Nothing wrong. Hadn't just been crying. Everything was going to come up aces. "Drop me back at my place?" The second smile was better. Peter looked at him with that _oh Neal_ expression and sighed, nodded.

"Let's get you home."


End file.
